


Cri de Coeur

by MarxistMouse



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed III, Assassin's Creed Rogue - Freeform, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Post Rogue, Reader-Insert, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarxistMouse/pseuds/MarxistMouse
Summary: Sometimes people have to die for things to change.  Killing the Assassin Hunter won't change the past but it will go some way to changing the future. And even if it doesn't, it'll go some way to making you feel better.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First off apologies for a long, long absence. I just didn't have the energy or inclination to write. But I'm back again with lots of new ideas and spent the Christmas - New year period planning things out. There's a revamped Unity story, a few Syndicate fics, a move into new fandoms and this. It's a bit of an ambitious story - one of two halves spanning the events of Rogue and ACIII leading into the beginning of Unity.

1770, Paris

The footsteps died away and you slowly, hesitantly moved out of the dark recess under the pitted, walnut desk. The entire room was covered in a thick layer of dust and had the cloying smell of disuse and disrepair. The once stately house and the cadet branch of De La Verendrye itself had fallen into a genteel poverty. On first appearance, the fixtures and fabrics looked perfectly elegant but the second glance told the visitor the family had fallen on hard times. 

Angling yourself back under the desk, you resumed the hunt for the secret compartment you were certain lay behind the locked drawer. Lockpicking wasn't your favourite occupation. But needs must. You had to get into papas desk. He had been missing for such a long time, years and years. So long that he had missed you turn into a surly adolescent, had missed your induction into the order he had trained you for so relentlessly.

The fledgling skills of a locksmith, thief, stalker and killer came courtesy of that particular order. Deportment, charm and the skills of a lady came from your mother's relentless hectoring. No one had to tell you it was expedient to hide the former using the latter. 

You removed the tension wrench from the pouch and inserted it into the tarnished lock on the drawer, following it with a slim pick. The first pin went up with ease. Painstakingly, you attempted the second. The fingers on your right hand were numbing at the tips and you could swear the footsteps were getting louder. The pick slipped against the metal followed by a mumbled curse.

"Girl! what the hell are you doing?" A sharp bark comes as the door is flung open, unsettling motes of dust and breaking the dark fugue. 

"I live here!" you vainly try to scrabble for an elusive moral high ground as you get to your feet quickly. "This is my house and this is my father's office. What are you doing here, Master Bellec?"

"Hmm". Bellec eyes the wrench in your hand and the countless broken picks scattered carelessly at your feet. You flush slightly, preparing yourself for a lecture on discretion, organisation and the 20 or so other things you don't especially care for. Bellec seemed to only communicate via criticism and scowling but for the moment he was unusually quiet. He shifts uneasily and casts his pale eyes at the carpet, the desk, the leather bound volumes lining the walls. Everything except you. It's simply too reserved for his usual demeanour and you're hit by a sharp wave of premonition. "It's about my father isn't it?" 

"I'm afraid it is" he answers gently after an unbearable pause. "Sit" and you allow yourself to be led to a creaky chair by the elbow. He kneels bringing himself to eye level with you. You only manage to hear fragments of a conversation through the loudly beating pulse in your ears and the constant swallowing of the lump lodged in your throat. Confirmed. Dead. Templar plot. The colonies. Kenway. Shay Cormac. 

You wipe your eyes desperately with a shaky hand and look up to see Bellec studying you carefully. "It's up to you. I have to travel out to the colonies for the war effort. Accompany me if you like. It'd be a good distraction for you. And training". He attempts to fill the void with words. 

"The colonies are in a bad way. Templars all over the place, the Assassin presence in North America....Well, there isn't one any more.Errr……obviously you'll need some time to think about it" He adds gruffly, at a loss with what to do with the stricken girl sat in front of him. He reaches over to pat your hand awkwardly. 

"No. No, I don't. I'm coming". You eventually manage to break the silence with a hoarse whisper. Shay Patrick Cormac. You committed the name to memory. He had earned your undying enmity and you were willing to wait for the perfect moment to take your revenge. However long it took.

**Author's Note:**

> So……how was that? I hope you enjoyed it. I will try and commit to an update schedule and it definitely won't be over a year for the next chapter. I do have young children and may not be on the ball all the time. 
> 
> As ever, comments are dearly appreciated. Be gentle though, eh? It's been quite a while. My typing fingers are creaky.
> 
> Thanks MMxx   
> MMXVII


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